Mar 1, 2010

about working in a public space such as, oh, a Panera Bread restaurant.... is the lady sitting at the table behind me screaming into her cell phone at her husband about feeding the dog Cheerios because he might not be able to choke them down.

Jul 9, 2009

I used to dream that I was a spy. It wasn't uncommon for me to wake up in the middle of the night, soaked with sweat, fresh out of a scene from a Bourne movie (or some custom version of a similar ilk in which I was the star). In hindsight, I can pinpoint quite a few reasons why my dreams ran this course for several years. Sadly though, it seems that my days as a sleep drunken dreamer spy have gone. My oft dozing subliminal self hasn't been able to channel the always running adventurer in quite awhile.

My dreams of late are fairly focused, pinpointed on fears and a recurring scene that involves a voodoo statue and a lot of yelling on my part. They also involve the occasional bar room, with a long table and me stuck up against the wall, unable to move. If you really want to know I'll tell you, but it's kinda weird and more than a little disconcerting, so let's leave it between you and me ok?

Remember that race I was going to run last Saturday? It was awesome. Seriously a ton of fun, running through the woods, up and down steep ravines, across a waist deep river (not once, but three times) and through rocky creek beds. I'm gonna go ahead and give back the poison ivy that currently abides on both legs and my right arm. I'm also going to give back the 3 hornet stings that laid me up for 3 days. (Yes, I'm allergic, and yes I kept running and finished the last 3 miles after I got stung. . . . don't worry, my mom already yelled at me for it.) I came in 11th overall and should have been 8th, but got lost on the trail at one point and ran about 1/2 mile out of my way to get back with the pack. Finishers 8,9 and 10 were in my sights at the end and if I hadn't gotten lost I would've been in front of them no problem. I know that the title of this post was about dreams, but this kinda was one, so lay off.

Surreal moments abound. My nerve endings are finding life after a long period of numbness and it feels good to feel again. Though I'm not medicated, I find myself living again for the first time in awhile in a Garden State sort of way. The sterile, unfeeling, and very safe place where I put my heart now seems bland, un-invigorating and cold. I want some color. I'm wearing green today, but in that bar room dream, I'm wearing gray.

Jul 3, 2009

So it's been about 9 1/2 months since anything of substance landed here, and at the time I guess no one had a clue.

I suppose it's safe to say that finally, at this point, and after everything else, I can show my face here again. Vulnerability is a bit hard to come by these days, but with the continued help of some old friends (and a few new ones) I'm making my way. Those who know me well know where I am and where I am not ... and now the rest of you are wondering. I'm still locked up tight, but the walls of this vault are starting to look more like a cardboard box, and I know that it's only a matter of time before I'm free to be me again . . . free to be the B that I haven't been for many years. Resurgence is in the air and I believe that the best is yet to come.

I have run through 4 pairs of shoesI have climbed a mountainI have sworn . . . . at basically everyone (yes, probably even you at some point)I have criedI have screamedI have paintedI have playedI have seen the very best and worst of myselfI have learned to stand up for myself

This is an annotated list.

And now I am ready for what is next. Tomorrow morning I'm running this guy. I'm a little excited about exposing the remaining demons, and then running their asses into the ground (or mud as the case may be). It's supposed to rain, and I think that will make it even better.

F*$% you Jobu, I'll do it myself.

Is there room in me for grace? And for patience? I don't discount the value, but I'm feeling a little selfish right now, and I guess I'm tired of being graceful, and patient. I seem to be a little short on tolerance, but then, I've always been willing to stand back and watch people implode with a kind smile on my face. Am I gracious because I don't speak up? Or am I a coward who can't dictate enough substance to alter what is going on around me? Or do I just find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time?

There is room in me for grace, and for patience. Those spaces are not dictated by circumstance, but by people. As my community grows, and the circle of people who care for me increases, so does my capacity for love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness and self-control. As much as I hate to admit it, the strength of the Spirit is drawn from the presence of community, and not by some advanced level of perception, logic, or knowledge. I find myself low amongst them, with much to learn.

Am I back? Who knows? But at least I'm breathing, and today at least, I'm standing up straight and showing my face.

Jan 26, 2009

Sep 18, 2008

I haven't talked about writing in this space in a long time. Come to think of it, I don't know if I've ever talked about writing in this space. I'm pretty sure all of those thoughts, musings, and updates were left in the wake of old blogs that have long since been retired.

The main reason for this is that I haven't been writing. At all. OK, so there's the occasional melodramatic poem, but nothing of substance in the least. And I'm learning something, and that is that I'm a much better, and happier, person when I AM writing.

So I've started a little project. I'm half sure that it will end up saved in a folder right beside all of the other half finished writing projects that I've started, but who knows, maybe this one is the magic bullet. I'm working on developing some ideas for short stories. At this point I'm viewing them more as exercises than as something that I may seek to publish.

I've always loved the poignant and very direct style of Flannery O'Conner. I've learned from past exercises, and a few undergrad writing classes at AU, that imitation is not only a sincere form of flattery, but it is a great way to hone your own style and to find your own strengths. I learned this lesson very well 2 summers ago when I spent a few months trying to imitate T.S. Eliot. I chose characters in the world around me and then wrote poems about them in the way that I thought Eliot would have written them about those same people and in those same circumstances. Not that I want to be Eliot, quite the opposite actually, but the exercise helped me learn more about my own perspectives and about my own strengths and passions as a poet.

So here I am developing stories about people in the same way that I think O'Conner would have written them. The hardest part for me at this point is the sheer blunt brutality of human nature that shows its face in her writing. She stares the darkest parts of who we are right in the eye and shows the reader just how close we all are to being the kind of people that we claim to abhor. Long term, this probably isn't a style that I'll stick with, but it is teaching me to pay very close attention to characters and too look deeper inside them than I have before.

These short stories also provide a decent place for me to practice writing dialogue. So much of what I've done has been in a non-fiction prose format, that dialogue doesn't come easy to me. I can write 10,000 words about what kind of conversation my characters just had, but I can't seem to write the damn conversation. The short story format doesn't have the intimidating factor of length to dissuade me, so I can keep pressing on with dialogue, knowing that I'll be able to wrap it up shortly.

Sep 15, 2008

I recently learned that the concept of Slam Poetry was born about 8 blocks from my house. The Green Mill is a famous old club here in Chicago and it's perhaps best known as an old haunt of Al Capone. If, however, you're not into gangsters and you don't have anything to do on a Sunday night, then you'll find a remarkable subculture of poets gathering to read, to laugh and generally harass each other.

I'd been wanting to go for a while now, and last night I was finally able to get my rear end over there. A few thoughts:

1. If variety is the spice of life then the Open Mike Hour was the West Indies. Some were poignant, some were cliched, some were just bad. A few were remarkable. One was great.

2. First time readers at The Green Mill are virgins. First time readers anywhere are "virgin virgins."

3. Following the Open Mike there were 2 featured Poets (groups of poets as it were). The 2nd group was almost more sketch comedy than poetry, but one particular sketch about Segways was pee your pants funny.

4. My little itch to read, which used to itch like a little mosquito bite, is now a full blown case of poison oak.

5. I will become a better poet by going to these things on a regular basis. I'm learning the importance of hearing what I write, and not just looking at it on the page.

6. With every effort to bury any arrogance in place, I can tell you that I could hang.

_________________________________With that said, I feel like I'm changing seasons.

Cryptic is fine and has its place, but so does openness. I've been hiding.

Sep 11, 2008

I finished part one of The Seven Storey Mountain and am taking a little break to read some candy. Mainly to help me sleep better.

I was listening to a Podcast of This American Life called "By Proxy" on the bus tonight on the way home from work, and I realized that I am now, without question, officially a liberal. How this happened, I do not know. The weird part is that I remain politically apathetic. Is that even possible?

Radiohead is my happy place right now. (I know . . . Thom Yorke is all angsty and the opposite of happy, but I don't care.)

I miss having a boring old cell phone with no email. The Blackberry (i.e. being accessible 24/7) is going to be the death of all us quiet, contemplative types.

I want to start a crazy long and epic novel after I finish the Merton autobiography; something classic. Open to suggestions.

I will be doing some cold weather camping this fall and I can't wait.

Still trying to work up the cajones to do some open mike reading. I think I'm gonna go to the Green Mill on Sunday night though, just to get inspired.

It's about time for a new laptop (I'm typing this on a screen that I can barely read through shattered LCD shards because I stepped on this thing.) I want to be uber hip and make the move to the Mac . . . but I'm in a dysfunctionally satisfying, codependent relationship with my PC's. Help?

Sep 7, 2008

We have a standing joke about going to the Taste of Chicago every summer. It's the biggest nightmare you can imagine because there are just so.many.people. One year, J and I went with some friends and the crowd was so dense that we were all physically forced apart by the mass of people and it took us about 2 hours to be able to find each other again. Now when we're bored and we look at each other and say "I don't know? What do you want to do?" the answer is almost always, "Let's go to the Taste."

Having said that, I got on my bike yesterday and ventured down to the Red Bull Flugtag at North Avenue Beach. Apparently a few other people had the same idea. The fence in the picture below runs along Lakeshore Drive from North Avenue all the way up to Fullerton. That's 12 city blocks and over 1 mile. I took this picture at the Fullerton end of the fence and the bikes were that thick on the fence ALL THE WAY TO NORTH AVE.

It was pretty obvious that I wasn't going to get anywhere close enough to see anybody drive a homemade plane off of a pier into the water. This was as close as I got. Please note the sea of humanity eventually BECOMES the horizon.

What I'd like to know is just what are all of those people standing at the back of the crowd looking at? You couldn't see anything.

Sep 4, 2008

he speaks with gritthrough yellowed teethand smoky, gutteral sloughsthe words. he knowsthem all from somewhere deeperthan just his memory.he syncopates. better than meis his love of the words thati always want to keep for my own.i want to hear him read.